


the world turned sweet

by AlphaBanana



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 11,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29151660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaBanana/pseuds/AlphaBanana
Summary: Collecting wayhavenmonthly prompts for February - Regency AU
Relationships: Detective/Farah Hauville, Female Detective/Ava du Mortain, Female Detective/Bobby Marks, Female Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Male Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Comments: 20
Kudos: 40





	1. february 1st: chocolate

The Ton is unforgiving of flaws. Riona _knows_ that, knows that any indulgence shall be seen as weakness by the pamphlets and by the mothers of any potential suitors (such that she cares). And yet, she has ever had a sweet tooth.

She suspects that it started when Lord Henry acquired for her a chocolate conserve, having given Farah her usual sweetmeats.

_“But papa, it looks like—” Abruptly remembered that she ought not finish the thought, since even the stable boy in town was clipped around the ear for saying such, and **he** was not destined to grow to be the jewel of the Ton._

_“It matters not how it looks. Close your eyes, sweetling.” Riona, ever-obedient, obliged, waiting for a moment before opening one eye to just a slit, curiosity taking over._

_“Riona.” Lord Henry’s tone was gentle yet firm, iron in velvet, and she shut her eyes tightly, feeling his chuckle warm her. “Now stick out your tongue.”_

_“But mama said—” Mama was always very insistent on what ladies should and should not do, and was hardly reticent in making those views known._

_“She said that when you were teasing Farah – which you mustn’t do, Farah thinks the world of you.” Lord Henry’s reproval was gentle enough, yet still stung like witch hazel, and Riona nodded and stuck her tongue out, eyes still scrunched shut._

_“Good.” A brief rustle of rich fabrics, before the conserve hit her tongue and her eyes flew open._

_“It’s sweet!” Riona was almost overcome with joy, and took the small, silver spoon from Lord Henry in a firm grip._

_“Just as sweet as you, sweetling. Now run along, before mama sees.” Lord Henry’s smile was indulgent, eyes and hair sparking golden_ —

And then the memory is gone, and so is her father. And Riona is still looking in the window of the confectioners’.

And she realises, then, that Farah and Pryce have continued walking, and she is quite alone.

“Lady Riona.” A gruff voice, lilting on the vowels in a way that reminds Riona of the Mediterranean sun when last they visited Lord Henry in the south of Italy, appears from a respectful distance behind her. She turns to face him with a polite smile, eyes alighting on the brass buttons of his uniform and the burnished bronze of his skin under the sunlight.

“Lieutenant Mason. I would not have thought that you would have business in this part of town.” Here there is the dressmaker, the ice cream shop, the small Viennese _Konditorei_ , the confectioners’…but little else, and certainly nothing that would interest such a man, with his rough manners and crude speech.

“It was not by choice.” The lieutenant’s words leave him on a sneer, though his eyes are soft when next he speaks. “I was with Nate.”

“You and Richmond have grown close.” Riona is glad that Richmond has friends here, is fortunate enough to count herself among them – even if the spectre of their arrangement hangs over every smile they gift each other.

“He’s been good to me.” And just like that, his good mood is gone, and the weight of stormy-grey depths is on her again, _studying_ her. “What were you staring at, anyway?”

“Oh, it—it doesn’t matter.” Riona stammers, uncharacteristically flustered – but this feels _raw_ , somehow, this feeling in her gut, it squirms and writhes the way that the krakens in her night terrors do when they pull Lord Henry’s ship to pieces and drag him down to the depths of the ocean blue.

The Lieutenant remains unconvinced, raises a dark eyebrow in question. “It clearly does.”

“I insist.” Riona has never felt _vulnerable_ with a man before, and even though she knows in her heart that _he_ would never hurt her, this man digs and prods at her scars with an almost surgical precision.

“ _I_ insist. And since _I_ asked first, I will thank you to be as honest with me as I am with you.” His tone is sharp, now – sharp enough to chase away any demons that yet linger.

“I—My father used to get me—” Riona cannot look at him when she speaks, feels that he is reading her soul with the same ease with which Richmond reads Rousseau, though when she braves his gaze again it is soft, quicksilver in the spring sunlight.

“The conserve?”

“Yes, that was— _Hey_!” He is gone, abruptly out of her reach (though she would not have thought to touch him, not here, out in the open – even if she might have wondered what his shoulder blades might feel like under her fingers).

The Lieutenant returns but moments later with a pretty jar made of pressed glass clutched in powerful-looking fingers – more costly than the jar she had actually favoured, and adorned with a laced ribbon.

“Here.”

And this is too much, this kindness is too much for Riona to _bear_ with no means of recompense. “I can’t accept, I haven’t got any—”

“Call it a gift, if you want – I don’t care.” His denial is rushed enough, curiously, that Riona takes pity and approaches a little, feeling pulled into his orbit even as the pregnant pause between them swells with all the crescendos of an orchestra. When their fingers brush as he hands her the jar, her nerve endings sing in chorus, and she feels something in her belly tighten at the way his focus snaps to her lips when they part on a breath.

The yell of a carriage driver in the next street breaks her from her stupor. “Well, I should find—”

“I’ll walk with you.” His interruption is as brusque as ever, even as Riona’s lips move to form the words, _there isn’t any need._ But his gait is resolute, expecting her to follow him.

And she does.


	2. february 2nd: interruption

Nate hates the rain – hates the way it punishes the flowers in the grounds of Tulip Hall, hates that it has spoiled his companions’ moods.

Hates that it has thwarted his plans for a ride with the Captain.

The Captain, though, is genial enough. And also, it seems, an inveterate flirt, eyes lidded as he brushes off Nate’s grousing about the weather from the other end of the chesterfield. “I can hardly complain of spending more time with you, here.”

“I—” Nate is grateful for the low, ambient light of the hearth in the drawing room to hide even the barest hint of a flush on his face, turning his face away to collect himself and not be drawn in by the way the Captain’s eyes shine with fire beneath dark waves.

“I should like that too, Captain—”

“Mickey. I _insist_.” The Captain’s— _Mickey’s_ —intervention is gentle, and a muscled arm stretches out across the back of the chesterfield as if to bridge the gap between them, and Nate turns to face him as if following some long-forgotten instinct.

“Mickey.” Mickey’s eyes are warm at Nate’s words, and he smiles at Nate widely enough to make Nate’s heart ache.

“I had merely hoped that I would be able to show you more of the estate.” The weather outside was far too inclement, winds howling and sky steel-grey, though thick, dark eyebrows disappear under lush tresses as Mickey reassures Nate.

“I had expected nothing more from my first English winter, you need not worry.” Mickey draws closer to him and slowly— _so_ slowly—raises a calloused finger to trace the flush high on Nate’s cheekbones, making Nate’s eyes flutter shut for a moment.

“Though I had not expected the winter blooms to be so captivating.” Mickey’s voice is sinfully deep, and when Nate opens his eyes again Mickey is _right there_ , pupils ink-like as normally bright blue eyes flicker down to watch as Nate licks his lower lip reflexively, his mouth inexplicably dry all of a sudden.

Nate’s breath hitches, and he dimly recalls his governess teaching him about Isaac Newton’s theories and—

And then the Lieutenant arrives, and the moment shatters like _cristallo_ in Nate’s hands.

Mickey leans back as if burned, scowls at the Lieutenant who affects not to notice the irritation. The three of them sit in silence for a while before Nate requests more lights to be brought in, so at least he can escape into another world in one of his books.

Tries to, at least. Every other page, his eyes are drawn back to Mickey, who has not stopped looking at him in what feels like centuries, sometimes with a small, secret smile that Nate feels warm his soul.

They continue thus (the Lieutenant having stubbornly resisted any of the Captain’s increasingly less gentle suggestions that he might like to tend the horses, or check the bags, or _be somewhere else_ ) until it is dark without and Mickey and the Lieutenant must leave to return to Sutherland’s townhouse.

“We will see you soon, your Grace.” Mickey’s tone is thick and dark with promise, and Nate does not sleep a wink that night.

**

The day after his valiant attempts to stop his commanding officer making a fool of himself, Mason is bored, and tired, and _bored_ , trying to explain something very simple to a man in his late twenties who should know better. “You know that you cannot stay here.”

Mickey looks bored too – or tries to, but the tightness around his eyes betrays the affectation, even as he tries to cover it with a sharp laugh. “I know. But why can I not enjoy myself while I am here?”

It is not as if Mason does not know fun – has not indulged himself in the pleasures of the flesh (though not recently, not since they first arrived in London, and he does not like to think about why that might be). Instead, he deflects and defends Richmond with a scowl.

“He deserves to be more than a plaything, you—”

“He _is_.” Mickey is harsher than Mason remembers ever seeing him, even on the blood-soaked battlefield at Santa Maura, blue eyes now ablaze and teeth bared in a snarl.

“Prove it.” Mason is shocked at himself, that he is involving himself in Mickey’s business so – but he Nate deserves better than to be cast aside, and Mickey is hurtling towards a precipice that Mason cannot save him from.

“I—” Mickey, for all his bluster on the battlefield, looks like a lost, little boy then, blue eyes wide with what looks like fear and soft, Mason realises, with unshed tears.

“I’ve never—” Mickey has not said much about his past, but Mason knows he had wandered half the globe before his 22nd nameday, lost and adrift – little wonder, then, that he has not known this kind of companionship before, even if he is well-versed in the other.

“Talk to him.” Mason tries to calm his voice, squeezes Mickey’s well-muscled shoulder gently, even as he chides him. “Get your head out of your arse.”

A wet-sounding hum of assent and a nod, before Mickey turns to face the wall to compose himself.

~

Nate does not want to interrupt them, is perfectly prepared to return to the library from whence he came – but he fancies that he hears his name on Mickey’s— _Mickey’s_ —lips and cannot resist listening.

 _“You know that you cannot stay here.”_ The Lieutenant’s accent is as familiar as Mickey’s, as is the flat tone of his voice.

What is _not_ familiar, is the harsh bark of laughter that leaves Mickey, whose laughter is usually warm and lilting, musical in its peaks and troughs.

_“I know. But why can I not enjoy myself while I am here?”_

Nate feels quite ill, all of a sudden, feels something within him slam to the floor like a leaden weight. Jerks away from the door and lets the book fall through his fingers as he flees to his father’s folly, where he stays until the storm outside has grown to a crescendo, loud and wild enough to match the storm of his own heart.

Nate jerks away from the door, flees to his father’s folly, where he stays until the storm outside has grown to a crescendo, loud and wild enough to match the storm of his own emotions

**

Nate can hear the men searching for him and for a selfish moment does not care, does not _want_ to care (caring hurts, it _hurts_ to have been used so). Then thinks of what might happen if they do not find him soon, thinks of Riona and how the scandal might affect her with their arrangement in place, and ventures out into the storm, one step at a time.

The wind is punishing, and he welcomes this pain, drinks it in instead of savouring his own.

“Richmond!” And too late, Nate realises that even when trying to lose himself in the storm he has fallen back into Mickey’s orbit.

Mickey walks slowly up to him, dark hair plastered to his cheeks and blue eyes wild with a worry that does not seem to dissipate even though he has found his quarry. “We were worried sick, what—”

Nate brushes the outstretched hand away and carries on walking, carries on even when he loses his footing in the mud and skids down the bank.

“ _Don’t_ walk away from me!” Mickey’s voice is little more than a _howl_ , primal and _wanting_ , and Nate turns to face him with lips pulled back in the nearest thing to a snarl he has ever managed.

“Why? Is this not _fun_?” Nate’s voice is harsh, harsher than it has ever been, and he _enjoys_ the flinch that draws from Mickey, even as Mickey strides confidently down the bank and stands before him.

“ _Fun_ is us being able to laugh in the warm. Safe and happy.” Mickey’s eyes are soft as he brushes hair away from Nate’s cheek, and Nate’s skin _burns_ under Mickey’s touch, calloused fingers sanding away his hurt.

“But you—”

“I would not – you deserve more. That doesn’t mean I can’t _want_ —” Exactly what Mickey wants must go unanswered for now, as Nate bends to capture Mickey’s lips, tastes the rain and salt on his tongue, and is not sure whose it is as he tangles a hand in thick, dark hair and devours the man in front of him, who offers himself willingly with a gasp.

“Your Grace!” Mr. Jenkins’ voice can just be hear over the storm and over Nate’s thundering heartbeat.

Mickey laughs helplessly, even as he steps away reluctantly to look up at Nate as best he can with the rain in his eyes.

“Always with the interruptions.”


	3. february 4th: coffee

Coffee is harsh and bitter on Sutherland's tongue, but there is something about the way Du Mortain tries to wrap lush lips around the English language that is almost sweet.

Small talk is hardly a strength for either of them, but Du Mortain is as valiant as any French knight of yore, and it is the local wildlife which must now face dispassionate commentary.

“I have never seen so many squ— _squirr_ —” It is with a quiet fascination that Sutherland watches Du Mortain flounder, first over the consonants, then over the _r_ , before eventually taking pity and leaning forward, placing elbows on the café table and smiling as a rake might.

“ _Écureuils_?” The effect of French on Du Mortain is immediate – eyebrows raise and mouth twists into a sullen pout, before raising eyes of a jade rich enough to entice any emperor to the heavens and exhaling one small word on a breath.

“ _Putain_ …”

“ _Du Mortain_!” A faux scandalised look that Sutherland has never worn before, before a grin breaks through – and Sutherland cannot remember ever smiling so, the expression feeling foreign on gaunt cheeks and angular features but not unwelcome.

 _Du Mortain_ , though—the smile on those lips is something heavenly, dimples creasing cheeks that had previously seemed to be made of solid, unyielding marble, and those jade eyes are alight in the late spring sunlight that has already turned dark blond hair to gold. The air in Sutherland’s lungs seems to heat, and a gentle flush colours Du Mortain’s angular cheekbones (Sutherland fancies you could cut _glass_ on Du Mortain’s cheekbones—)

Their server arrives to give them the bill, and the moment slips through leather-gloved fingers.

Later, when they are walking back to Du Mortain’s lodgings, a question occurs to Sutherland.

“Why do you not buy a place of your own here?” Sutherland’s head tilts to the side to better study Du Mortain’s features, and it is _most_ unfair that whatever French lineage runs through the Laveau family’s veins, none of them have been similarly blessed with such looks and poise.

“I—” Perhaps _poise_ was a little strong, as Du Mortain fumbles with the words, seeming to trip over an unusually hesitant tongue. “I have never intended to stay for long before.”

 _Before_. The word sings to Sutherland in cadences long-forgotten, and the question that falls from Sutherland’s lips now cannot be helped, cannot be _contained_.

“And now?” Sutherland does not dare to hope – yet cannot deny that it would be nice (more than nice) to know that Du Mortain’s presence at certain functions can be relied upon. There is something to be said for having another who wishes they were elsewhere.

Du Mortain flushes again, this time darker than in the café, and seems to struggle to meet Sutherland’s cool, grey gaze. “ _Now_ , I—if you could provide me with the details of an—ah—”

“ _Agent immobilier_?”

“ _Oui_.” There is something about how Du Mortain’s lips seem to almost caress the word that heats Sutherland’s blood, as they round as if to kis—

“ _Bon. A bientôt_.” If Du Mortain is shocked by Sophia’s brusque exit, it does not show – only a curious kind of wistfulness that cuts just as surely as a knife.


	4. february 5th: smile

Pryce has a lovely smile – like sunshine peeking through clouds.

They are _so_ serious, most of the time, especially on the rare occasions that Farah has seen them in the presence of strangers, tension radiating from a narrow frame and eyes wide and almost frightened.

Yet they are serene when Farah watches them work in their library, and the calm washes over Farah like a wave until she is smiling back and cannot resist moving to stand next to Pryce, whose frame tightens for a moment before relaxing against her.

“You look happy.” Farah’s tone is breathier than she would like, but the sight of Pryce _happy_ is something that she still cannot fathom, she still cannot understand what she must have done to be rewarded so.

“I am.” Their assent is a hum, almost catlike, and there is something so simple, so _pure_ and uncomplicated about it that Farah almost cannot take, tears standing in the corner of amber eyes—

And Pryce is _mortified_.

“I misspoke.” A small, whispered, _panicked_ realisation as they turn to find Farah’s bag, strewn carelessly on a chair by the door. “I apologise, I shall fetch Richmond and he will return you to Lady Caroline post haste—”

Farah places one delicate finger on Pryce’s lips (soft as velvet), and there is something beautiful about the way their eyes flutter shut for a moment before opening again to reveal eyes even darker than normal, pupils having swallowed the warm brown irises.

Farah’s throat works to try and push past the lump there (Pryce wants _her_ , not Riona or Lady Caroline or their money, such as it is—her, _only her_ ) and she smiles in answer. “There is no need. I am happy too.”

And _that_ smile from Pryce is worth _one thousand_ suns.


	5. february 6th: decoration

Some things are inherently true, and have been ever thus. The sun rises in the east. Water is wet. Riona is pretty.

And yet she has never _wanted_ to be mere decoration. Before even her eighteenth nameday, suitors would come to their house, Lord Henry and Lady Caroline humouring them before sending them on their way with vague promises of an impending debut. Only ever interested in three things – the size of her dowry, the proportions of her features, and the circumference of her hips (she has been told now since her first cycle that she has _good, child-bearing hips_ by many a middle-aged bachelor and widower).

Riona reads. Widely, quickly, _voraciously_ , hungry for something that she is told she should not want and yet craves all the same. New worlds and interesting people and _sensations_ above all else. Lord Henry’s collection is more extensive, more _provocative_ than Riona thinks her mother realises, and the discussions therein have been _educational_ to say the least.

No matter what she reads, no matter what she learns, she is ever seen as decoration – even _Richmond_ , who she had thought an ally with whom she can discuss _Otranto_ and _The Monk_ and anything else in his library, had called her _prettier than a picture_ not this morning over tea and cakes at the _Konditorei_ , and she still seethes at the thought as she promenades alone in Hyde Park, even as Captain O’Connor approaches with Lieutenant Mason in tow.

“Lady Riona! You look well, I’m glad.” Captain O’Connor means no harm, and that is what makes her still her tongue before she lashes out at him with it like a whip.

“Thank you – London seems to suit you well, will you stay longer?” The Captain is always a welcome sight, even if the Lieutenant has the unfortunate tendency to make her blood heat – and London does indeed seem to be suiting O’Connor, the sparkling, ocean blue of his eyes more dazzling than in February when first he had arrived. And, were she to be pushed, she might say that it suits the Lieutenant too, even if he looks no happier than before. Instead, he lingers, always in the periphery of her minds’ eye, like a storm, no matter his dark good looks or the way his eyes follow her movements.

“Oh, I should think we can manage a little beyond the end of the current season.” O’Connor smiles, and she is grateful for his easy charm and the way it can distract her, even if only for a moment, from the Lieutenant’s gravitational pull.

“I’m glad – Richmond seems much brighter when you are in town.” And if Richmond is bright, then the pamphlets will be happy. And if the pamphlets are happy, Lady Caroline will be happy. And, selfishly, Riona hopes that if Lady Caroline is happy with the pamphlets, she will leave Riona be for a moment or so and switch to fretting about Farah.

Lieutenant Mason coughs unconvincingly to hide a huff of laughter—if Riona were not already ill-tempered, she might have paused to wonder why the tips of the Captain’s ears have turned a somewhat alarming shade of red—and Riona narrows hazel eyes at him.

“Do you have something to add, Lieutenant?” Riona knows that she ought not to snap, that even if he is but a soldier he is still a _man_ and she must _know her place_ – but her temper has been ever thus, ever since she was a child.

“I said nothing, my lady.” Far from trying to appease her, as so many might have, the Lieutenant _smirks_ at her, and her blood is all but ready to _boil_.

“You did not need to – your disdain, just as everyone else’s, is perfectly plain.”

It is unfair to attack him so when he is hardly the only one – but her pride will brook no withdrawal, and she forces herself to stand her ground and meet his eyes as they study her, seem to learn every part of her.

After a minute or a millennium, Captain O’Connor breaks the silence and begins to try and draw the Lieutenant away, but _he_ is still looking at her, something like a smile lingering at the corner of soft-looking lips, and she has no patience left for the arrogance of militiamen.

“Do you, or do you not, feel disdain toward me, sir?” Riona has stepped closer, and must be careful here, in public, not to compromise herself.

 _He_ clearly feels no such instinct, leaning forward at the waist so that he can directly look her in the eye and speak more softly to her.

“Disdain is not the word I would use, no.”

“What, then?” Exasperation floods her tone, even as her breath catches slightly at the proximity, at the scent of sandalwood and heady incense that envelops her.

His eyes are piercing, and there is something hungry in them as he hears her breath hitch. Moves closer still until all she can see is blown pupils with stars in their depths.

“You are…” Seems to consider his words carefully and _that_ is new, to not have someone shower her with the first compliments that come to mind.

“Challenging.”

Another, longer pause then as she tries to parse the meaning she is sure is behind his words, even if all she can think of is the look in his eyes as he peers up at her through thick, dark lashes when he bows his farewell.

It is only later, tucked into bed with Farah who sleeps soundly at her breast, that Riona realises he has not called her pretty _once_.


	6. february 7th: pain

“Have some.” Sutherland frowns as Du Mortain sits stubbornly, neither eating nor drinking, and begins to push a bread basket towards Du Mortain.

The turning up of a Roman nose would have been answer enough, but Du Mortain has rarely allowed such a moment as this, where displeasure can be voiced emphatically, to pass. “ _Non_ , _merci_.”

“I insist.” Sutherland can _hear_ the late Duchess telling her that one must always endeavour to be a good host to one’s guests, and tries again, this time leaning forward slightly to bridge the distance between them – though the only rebuff that that proximity elicits is an elaboration on the previously-voiced displeasure.

“And _I_ insist that _that_ is not bread.”

It certainly _looks_ like bread to Sutherland, who prods at the loaf tentatively, feeling the bread spring back. But when Du Mortain is told as such, blond locks shake loose from their silk ribbon tie with the force of the denial.

“It is _not_. _Regardes_ , there should be more air pockets here, and…” Sutherland has seldom seen Du Mortain so animated, so _passionate_ , and a flush spreads over pale cheeks at the sight of jade eyes ablaze and hair mussed as Du Mortain continues to speak, continues to educate an unheeding Sutherland as to the true nature of _pain_.

Sutherland watches almost horror-struck, from somewhere above where they both sit in Sutherland’s drawing room, as one unusually ungloved hand tucks one errant strand of spun gold back behind Du Mortain’s ear. Fingertips brush along Du Mortain’s cheekbone, and even the scant contact is enough to send electricity sparking through Sutherland’s body. That electricity rages into a wild storm as Du Mortain seems to lean into Sutherland’s touch on instinct, until Sutherland is cupping a cheek that is soft as velvet, running the pad of one thumb under Du Mortain’s eye (with thicker lashes than Sutherland had expected, onyx to frame the jade) as if to brush away the tiredness that lingers there.

A carriage clatters down the street outside, and both of them stop as if frozen in ice, before Sutherland jerks away as if the contact may burn (for all Sutherland knows, it already has). When Sutherland’s tongue untangles itself, the necessary apology can only be whispered weakly, frame still shivering from the contact. “I’m sorry, I—”

“No, it is I who—” Du Mortain assays, and then falls quiet and the pair of them sink into a silence neither wants to break. After what could have been seconds or hours, Du Mortain coughs and speaks.

“I should return to my lodgings – the workers should have arrived to move my things into my new house.” Another pause, this one more tentative as Du Mortain studies Sutherland’s features.

“ _Je te vois demain_?”

“Yes— _oui_.”

Du Mortain’s smile at the fumble is wide, but brief, strikes Sutherland like a lightning bolt, almost violent in its intensity before the smile fades and Du Mortain nods a farewell.

And it is only once they have parted, Sutherland still smiling at the memory of Du Mortain’s dimples and of the feeling of Du Mortain’s skin, that the _tutoiement_ hits Sutherland like a brick.


	7. february 8th: sweet

“Here, try this.”

Riona offers Richmond a spoonful of her ice cream, and though he seems tempted, his eyes flicker around the other tables in the ice cream shop, no doubt thinking of how much they can see, of what they will think, of anything but here and _now_ —

“Are you pretending to be smitten with me or not?” Riona raises an eyebrow, before relenting a little. “Our arrangement is not yet done, and I expect a full report in the pamphlets this weekend, just as every weekend.”

“Very well.” And Richmond opens his mouth to take in the ice cream, lightly flavoured with strawberries and cream, humming slightly in agreement that it is, in fact, very good, before leaning back with a pensive look on handsome features.

“But this ruse of ours may be working a little too well, from your perspective, at least.”

“How so?” Riona cocks her head curiously – as far as she is concerned, this little arrangement is going _swimmingly_.

“No suitor has yet approached you.” Richmond’s tone is tentative, as if he worries he has misspoken, and Riona tries to think of the last time a suitor wished her well and cannot remember. Is slightly shocked to realise that it has not crossed her mind in all these months.

“I think—I think I do not want one, in truth.” Riona has never struggled to express herself (save with the Lieutenant, and she does not like to think about just what that might mean), but there is a sinking feeling in her stomach whenever she thinks of Beaufort or Camberwell or Murphy even holding her hand, let alone—

Let alone.

“In any case, should it—should it come to it, I would—” And not for the first time Riona wishes she were not fixed on the thought of a love match, that she could content herself with Richmond’s kindness and let love follow in time—but she is too stubborn for that, and he deserves happiness with another.

“You are sweet – and I am grateful, truly, but you deserve a love match, and—”

“That cannot be.” Richmond’s words are uncharacteristically sharp, and Riona suppresses a flinch at the tightness in his jaw, at the thought she put it there.

“Ah.” And as they sit in silence and finish their ice cream, there is not much left that one can say to the other.


	8. february 10th: flirt

“I think you are sorely mistaken.” Sutherland tries to caution Riona but she merely waves her hand airily and smiles warmly.

“I am never mistaken. Not in such matters.” Riona’s tone is assured, honeyed sweet, and Sutherland cannot help but scoff.

“Well, _that_ is not true.” There have been any number of instances where Riona has falsely predicted which matches would present themselves from each season, often following the longing glances across the ballrooms, rather than the discussions between parents.

Riona is an idealist, and stubbornly proud to boot. “Do you want my help or not?”

Sutherland grumbles, and then settles again, draping one long leg over the arm of the chesterfield, much to Riona’s disdain.

“Must you?”

“Must you, _your Grace_.” Sutherland does not normally gloat so – but there is something entertaining about needling Riona, especially if it distracts her from her stated goal of _meddling_.

The attempt appears to have failed, as Riona raises an eyebrow and makes as if to leave.

“Fine. Sit.” Sutherland concedes, and sits _properly_ on the seat to hear her Sybil’s judgement.

“While I would not go so far as to call it _flirting_ , you cannot deny that Du Mortain is intrigued by you.” Presented so confidently, with golden hazel eyes shining with triumph, Sutherland might even allow a little shred of hope to—

Hope for _what_? A loss of autonomy, of self, so shattering that it could not be borne?

“I _highly_ doubt that.”

Riona looks genuinely puzzled at that, so Sutherland feels the need to elaborate. “We have shared fewer than ten words at once on any given occasion.”

“That says nothing of the words you do not share – Du Mortain’s eyes are like a poet’s. Very expressive.” Sutherland has, in fact, noticed that, along with everything else about Du Mortain, but that is not to say—

“Besides, Lady Caroline says that Lord Henry was much the same. Perhaps it is the natural way of things.”

Sutherland privately cannot imagine Lord Henry _ever_ being lost for words – though Lady Caroline was a handsome woman even now, and had apparently had the pick of the Ton in her own season, even tempting a younger French prince, when such were still on the marriage market, before she decided on Lord Henry. And Riona, who has inherited Lady Caroline’s look and Lord Henry’s striking golden-hazel eyes and easy charisma, has never seemed to appreciate that most are not born from such a match. Sutherland was no Lady Caroline – though telling Riona as such would only vex her, as it had when they were much younger yet.

_Sophia’s tone was matter-of-fact, almost serene as she considered the events of the ball which had taken place a day previously. “I will not find a match this season, I think – I am simply not pretty enough to be in the same season as the Watton girl.”_

_“Is that a joke?” Riona’s form was a little straighter then, more boyish, but she was already more than pretty enough, and Sophia did not have to be a gentleman to realise that Riona could well grow to be the comeliest lady in the Ton, if Farah did not beat her to the punch. But at **that** moment, Riona’s eyes blazed with anger, as she railed against Sophia’s self-deprecation._

_“…No?” Sophia was not in the habit of making jokes, and certainly not over something which, at least to her, seemed self-evident._

_Riona was all but spluttering, turning something dangerously close to puce. “Have you seen yourself?”_

_Given that Sophia had, after shrill words from her lady mother, spent nearly twenty minutes trying to pinch colour into wan, hollow cheeks; Sophia rather suspected she **had** seen herself, and that was part of the problem._

_She would have opened her mouth to say as such if Riona had not settled practically in her lap and cradled Sophia’s face between delicate, diminutive hands._

_“You are lovely.” And the sentiment, that made Sophia’s heart flutter around the edges with warmth, was only **slightly** undercut by the righteous fury in Riona’s eyes._

No, perhaps it would not be prudent for Sutherland to tell Riona that she is not a great beauty of the Ton, and never will be.

“Du Mortain is no Lord Henry.”

Riona laughs at that, and Sutherland manages to smile. “Well, of _course_ not! Du Mortain is _French_ – they must do things differently.”

Du Mortain is _certainly_ different, with jade eyes and dark blond hair that Sutherland _knows_ must be softer than Chinese silks, and with a near constant frown that barely softens unless—

Unless jade eyes fall on Sutherland. Then there is—not a _smile_ , but a _something_ playing on soft-looking lips that is just for the two of them.

“Hmm.” A non-committal hum is all that Sutherland can manage in the face of Riona’s optimism – though a response is hardly necessary.

“You are coming around to my way of thinking! I knew you would.” _Hurricanes_ would come around to Riona’s way of thinking if she put her mind to it, of that Sutherland is _quite_ sure.

“Perhaps,” Sutherland concedes, eager to have this conversation done and buried, “but it matters not.”

Riona raises neat eyebrows so high that they disappear among chocolate curls and tries to keep Sutherland with her, but Sutherland is already moving. “Now, hang on—”

“It does not matter. I cannot entertain such attentions from anyone, let alone—”

 _Let alone Du Mortain_.


	9. february 11th (accident) and february 13th (friends)

Pryce is many things. Endearing, sincere, frighteningly intelligent (Farah thinks sometimes that a mind that sharp might be as dangerous as a knife in the wrong hands – but that could never be with Pryce, as genial as they are).

What they are _not_ is a good dancer.

Farah cannot remember a time when she has not known these steps: _contretemps ballonné, chassé avant, jetté assemblé_ —

Yet it is with the _pas de rigaudon_ that Pryce comes quite unstuck, one narrow leg kicking out too far and rattling the mahogany end table. And it is with a quiet horror that Farah and Pryce watch the vase fall.

Farah had noticed the vase before – Flemish glass, she thinks, though Lady Caroline would know for sure. If Farah were being truly honest, it was quite a dowdy, as far as vases went, with its swamp-like hue and dull finish, and it almost looks prettier in pieces on the floor, the light catching the shards of glass rather nicely.

Pryce seems anxious, as well they might, though not as much as Mrs. Bridges would if she had done something similar to one of Lady Caroline’s possessions.

“It is an accident, he will not mind.” What little of Richmond Farah has seen can attest to that – and he dotes on Pryce as if they were his own flesh and blood.

Pryce hums in assent, though the tension has not yet left their frame, and Farah brushes diminutive hands over tense shoulders to loosen them. After an initial flinch, the effect is dramatic, and Pryce smiles at Farah with enough warmth to rival the sun. And not for the first time, Farah thanks whatever God will listen for gifting her the chance to be with someone who seems to—already!—take joy in her presence.

Farah chooses that as her moment to learn more of Pryce, even as Pryce leans up to kiss her cheek. “How did you and Richmond grow to be so close?”

“I—Do you know, I can’t remember!” A sharp, incredulous laugh from Pryce then, before they shake their head and smile fondly.

“I do not know when exactly it started, but it was in India – Richmond was visiting his mother, and I was there with my father, a clerk for the East India Company.” Farah holds statue-still in rapt attention – this is the most that Pryce has _ever_ shared about themself, and Farah dares not break the moment.

“He was in the library, and he asked me for help with translating a particularly tricky passage of the _Bhagavad Gita_ and—and then I think that was that.” A small, helpless shrug and a bashful smile, before they continue. “When he came back to England after his father died, I came with him.”

“Had you never been here before, then?” This is new, the fact that Pryce is perhaps more of an outsider here than Farah had first realised, and Farah resolves to make them as welcome as she can.

“No – and though books are wonderful teachers, there is much and more that they do not mention.”

Farah lets her jaw drop theatrically, amber eyes widening in mock surprise. “I never thought I should hear from your lips that books have shortcomings! Tell on, what kinds of things do books not tell you.”

“They do not talk about balls – one cannot learn to dance from a book.”

That is sadly true – sadly, at least, for the sake of Farah’s slippers and her poor, abused feet.

“Nor do they teach one how to hold conversation – or when they do, it is almost impossible to keep one’s conversation partner to the script.”

True again, although when Farah speaks to Pryce it seems to her that she is feeling a connection that she had thought lost, the words coming as naturally as breathing.

“And—and they do not tell me how I should—” At this, Pryce’s words seem to fail them, and they instead reach to brush cool fingertips across Farah’s jawline, Farah shivers and croaks her answer.

“I think you are coping most excellently.”

“Good. I’m glad.” And Pryce presses smiling lips to Farah’s cheek, humming gently as Farah turns her head to taste their grin.


	10. february 12th (strength) and february 24th (rivalry)

Mickey and the Lieutenant insist that they will not be layabouts, but that they will earn their keep.

And as Nate approaches them, lemonade in tow, he is hardly complaining.

It is late summer, and both Mickey and the Lieutenant are stripped to the waist as they help the estate men fell trees. And though the Lieutenant is comely enough, with his lean frame of burnished bronze; when Nate traces the path of dark, wiry hair dusting robust muscles and descending down to the waistband of Mickey’s trousers, his mouth is inexplicably dry.

“Are you quite well, Nate?” Mickey’s tone is conversational but there is a glint in his eyes that would make Nate quake if they were alone—

Nate glares at him, silently willing him to remember their agreement, whispered into sweat-slick skin in the dead of night: that none should suspect, for either of their sakes, that there is more here than camaraderie.

“He has not seen us so – I think he thought us merely decorative before.” Mason frowns at Mickey (and oh, if Mason does not approve of the little he _thinks_ has passed between Mickey and Nate, he would be apoplectic if he knew—)

“I think it would take a lot more to impress me.” Nate tries to save the situation, turns to ladle lemonade into sturdy glasses and quietly exults in having been able to hide his flush from the estate workers about—

Until he turns again to find Mickey in front of him, _unnecessarily_ close, looking up at him through dark lashes with a sultry smirk.

“Is that so?” One thick brow arches, then arches even closer to Nate, abdominal muscles flexing and sweat running into divots of muscle that Nate wants to _taste_ —

“We’ll have to see what we can do.”

**

It takes Jenkins merely two attempts to convince Mickey and the Lieutenant to enter themselves for a boxing match in the local arena – for charity, and for the glory of victory, nothing more.

In advance of that, the pair of them decide that they need to spar, and once more they are stripped to the waist, powerful muscles glistening under the summer sun as they circle each other among the tulips.

When Mickey stumbles slightly on one of the paving slabs, Nate’s heart leaps into his throat. Yet before he can rush to Mickey’s aid (if he even _wants_ Nate’s help – Mickey is proud, under all his quips, proud of his rank and his name and his honours); the Lieutenant smirks.

“Slipping already, old man?”

The smirk is short-lived, as Mickey jabs forward and pushes Mason onto the defensive. “More than spry enough for _you_.”

And _oh_ , Nate should not be thinking about just how spry Mickey can be, not here. Instead, he shifts restlessly in his seat, moving his book further up his lap, even as he watches with rapt attention as powerful muscles bunch and coil under creamy, pale skin.

The two of them continue thus for some time, and before much longer it is the appointed time of Riona’s visit, and she comes to sit beside him wordlessly, with little fanfare. Nate manages to tear his eyes away from Mickey long enough to smile warmly at her, before continuing to watch the spectacle.

Curiously (although it is not terribly curious if one thinks about it for very long, but the sight in front of Nate makes it very difficult to _think_ ), Nate _thinks_ that he sees the Lieutenant turn his head slightly every so often to spy Riona in his peripheral vision, to check that she is watching him (and she _is_ , a dark flush high on fair cheeks, though Nate would wager that she would sooner die than discover that that fact was known). Nate _knows_ that the Lieutenant is distracted with thoughts of the lady to his left when one such turn earns him a clout to the ear, strong enough to make _Nate_ flinch reflexively before calling hoarsely for one of his men to bring a stretcher and call for Doctor Thwaites.

 _Riona_ is incandescent.

“What were you _thinking_?” She has kneeled next to the Lieutenant’s head and glares accusingly at Mickey, as if her gaze might be strong enough to burn the flesh from his bones.

Mickey, darling Mickey, remains undeterred. “Same as he was, I should wager.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” Riona tries to scowl, but her breath comes a little too quickly and her speech is a little too fast for her disdain to be believable (Nate does not think Riona is capable of such contempt as her mother).

Before Mickey can answer her, the Lieutenant mumbles something, and then a hurricane could not get Riona’s attention as she turns her gaze to the man at her side, shushing him gently as she tucks sweat-slick hair behind his ear. Nate watches as the Lieutenant, a man normally so rough as to be called cold by many, stills instantly under soft fingers, before he tries to arch into Riona’s touch like a flower seeking sunlight. Nor does Nate miss the darkening of the flush tinting Riona’s cheeks, even as his men gently raise the Lieutenant onto a stretcher and take him into the cool safety of the drawing room to await the Doctor. Nate suspects that Riona will fuss around the Lieutenant for the rest of her visit, long after he needs her to – but the Lieutenant seems loathe to be rid of her company, trying to turn to face her in the linen embrace of the stretcher.

“Are you suitably impressed, Nate?” Carefully ( _so_ carefully, to the point where it is as tempting a spectacle as the fight Nate just witnessed), Mickey washes the sweat from his torso with a damp cloth, before coming closer to Nate, and Nate cannot help but notice how the summer sun catches the droplets of water, how the water darkens and smooths the hair on his chest, that trails lower—

Has to stop himself before _he_ forgets their agreement.

A true gentleman might demur, might insist that he was not impressed by an effort that seems to have necessitated medical attention. Might insist that proper conduct demands guests to be clothed when speaking to a Duke.

Nate is quickly realising that he is no gentleman.

“I—I should think so.” His voice is unsteady, even as his tongue darts out to wet his lips – and it is more gratifying than Mickey shall ever know when Nate sees sky-blue irises obscured by the ink of dilated pupils.

“Hmm.” For a moment, Nate is stunned as Mickey seems to be _speechless_ for the first time since Nate clapped eyes on him, an incredulous laugh beginning to bubble in the back of Nate’s throat before Mickey’s eyes narrow and a smirk curves lips that Nate _knows_ are softer than they look.

“Well, I think you owe me.” And before Nate can fathom just _how_ Mickey has come to that conclusion, calloused fingertips brush softer than a kiss along the sensitive skin of the inside of Nate’s wrist, sending coherent thoughts (such as they were) skittering into the dark corners of Nate’s mind.

“And I intend to collect.”


	11. february 14th: valentine

When Mrs. Bridges tells Riona that a gentleman has come, Riona thanks her kindly and takes up her position on the chesterfield, rising when Lieutenant Mason enters.

“Lieutenant.” Congratulates herself for the way her voice stays steady, even if she must clasp her hands together to prevent them from shaking.

(Does he not _know_ what day it is? What him coming here today might mean? Does he _care_?)

“My lady. I—I heard Richmond saying you learned some Greek in your youth.”

He certainly seems _anxious_ , if nothing else, and rubs the back of his neck with his left hand, revealing a simply-bound book held tightly in his right. Seems to shake himself before leaning slightly to reach out and hand her the book, introducing it as _Erotokritos_ and waiting for her reaction.

She remembers her governess telling her of it, though Lady Caroline had deemed it far too full of chivalry and romance for a young, impressionable girl. Riona is not sure if she is any less impressionable now than she was then (she _wants_ everything in these courtly romances and more, wants to feel it burn her to the core), but her Greek will certainly be better able to cope with it.

Realises that she has not given the Lieutenant, who stands still and unbreathing as a statue as he watches her, an answer – lets a broad, warm smile play on her lips and _knows_ she does not imagine the way his shoulders sag with relief.

“Some, yes. I—” Riona’s habitual eloquence has deserted her in the face of _this_ , and instead she settles for the simple truth. “Thank you.”

Something mad takes control of her then, and she reaches out to grab his hand and hold it in hers. She thinks it might well be the first time she has held a man’s hand, and is quite certain, then, that she does not wish it to be the last. There is something electric about it, and one look at him, pupils blown and soft-looking lips parted on a breath, tells her he felt it too.

If asked, Riona could not say how long they stand holding hands and simply looking at each other, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a rhythm that makes her feel quite faint and—

“ _Riona_!” When Lady Caroline is that shrill, there are surely storms brewing, and Riona reluctantly lets go of the Lieutenant’s hand and flees into the next room, flashing him a pleading look as she shuts the door firmly behind her.

_“Is everything alright, my lady?” The Lieutenant’s voice is far more conciliatory with Lady Caroline than he has ever been with Riona, and Riona cannot quite parse how she feels about that, even as her knuckles still tingle from his touch._

_Lady Caroline is still shrill, but manages to contain herself long enough to demand answers of the lieutenant. “What are **you** doing here? Where is Riona?”_

_“I do not know, my lady. I had wanted to give her a book – I will not be able to take it back to the barracks with me, and—” A little of Riona’s excitement dies at that – it was expedient, then, to give her the book, nothing more…_

_But it certainly hadn’t **seemed** that way when he had held her thrumming heartbeat in his hand._

_“Well, you have given your book. I shall see that she gets it.”_

_The Lieutenant seems lost for words for a mere moment, before he concedes and moves to leave. “I—Yes, my lady.”_

And like that, he is gone, though he looks up to the window she is peering out of to see her tracking his figure as he leaves. Riona smiles and waves, and he offers something like a smile in return (at least, it is not a smirk, as is his wont). As he walks away, he seems to rub at the skin she touched as if to prolong the sensation—

But that would be foolishness.

~

Later, when she has managed to extricate the book from her mother, she starts to read (slowly, still trying to remember the rhythms of the Greek language and its dialects) and quickly finds a small, pressed Viscaria flower amongst the pages.

By happy coincidence, there is a ball this coming weekend.


	12. february 15th: single

Sutherland is not brooding. That is _not_ what Sutherland is doing.

That Sutherland is sitting, alone, nursing a whiskey in a drawing room that is almost pitch-black, save for the glow of the hearth, is immaterial.

After a suitably long period of not-brooding, Sutherland dresses in finest brocades and resolves to promenade, thinking that the brisk winter’s air might be soothing. But half of the Ton seems to have had the same bright idea, and before long Sutherland has grown weary of greeting perfect strangers and simpering mamas, resolving to return home—

Upon which Sutherland crashes into the unyielding form of Du Mortain. Stumbles, but does not fall ( _Laveaus, do not fall_ , as her father would have told her), instead grabbing onto Du Mortain’s arm (well-muscled and firm and _steady_ ) for but a moment.

“Sutherland, you must take care.” Du Mortain’s tone is calm, but there is a curious flush on angular cheekbones that give the appearance of strawberries and cream (and for one mad moment, Sutherland thinks how _sweet_ —).

“My apologies.” Sutherland’s voice is _broken_ – damn pollen. “Are you occupied today?”

“Why, no. I am—ah—I am promenading.” Du Mortain seems to be unsure about the concept – and Du Mortain has already said that a preferred pass-time in Mortain is to hike _La Montjoie_. Promenading slowly on flat streets, weaving in and out of bumbling civilians, must seem strange – stranger still is that Du Mortain has been left alone, has not found a simpering mama in the shadow of burgundy tails.

“Alone?”

“Quite alone – or, I was.” Though the faint flush on Du Mortain’s cheeks might suggest that the change in fortune is not an unwelcome one.

“Would you like to join me? Only I think I have had my fill of the Ton for one day.”

The relief in Du Mortain’s frame is almost palpable, ripples between them until Du Mortain can speak again. “That would be—that would be nice.”

“ _Bon_. _Allons-y_.” Sutherland cocks a dark brow at Du Mortain with a smile, before drawing the navy overcoat tighter around a narrow frame which has by no means benefited from only consuming whiskey this morning.

“ _Bon_.” A rare smile, and Sutherland thinks that being alone with Du Mortain might not be so bad.


	13. february 20th: jealousy

It is but a small trifle, what Captain O’Connor tells Riona, but it is enough to make her hackles rise.

“Of course, _Lieutenant Mason_ is a more popular man than one might imagine.”

“How so?” Tries to keep her voice casual, hands focused on pouring tea brought to them by Mrs. Bridges.

“Well, he is a handsome man. And charming in his own way.” The Captain’s voice is as genial as ever, though when Riona’s hand shakes slightly when she hands him his cup, dark brows furrow and he seems contrite, almost.

“Although I regret that you have not seen it.”

Riona’s denial comes as easily as breathing at this point – or she thinks it would, if she could breathe properly around the strange, somehow _foreign_ lump in her throat. “I do not _wish_ to have seen it. I merely find it implausible.”

The silence that lingers between them, where before had been playful conversation, perhaps even a flirtation, constricts like a noose, even when the Captain clears his throat and tries to break it.

“Nevertheless.”

And that _nevertheless_ follows her throughout her day, until it ricochets around her skull at the slightest prod, at the modiste, even at the café with Sutherland.

(God bless Sutherland, for an obliviousness that allows Riona to have a conversation without being asked if she is feeling poorly, or if she is sleeping well, or if she is grinding her teeth again.)

Did they simper and sigh for him, these girls? Did he _like_ that? There is a bitterness in her mouth at the thought that far exceeds the lingering notes of coffee, and Riona really must complain to the manager of the café, for her stomach roils and churns like snakes, so much so that she must have eaten something rancid.

In truth, it does not _matter_ what he likes – he is but a lieutenant (and not even a British one), and Lady Caroline insists on Riona spending whatever time she has with Richmond. But when the lieutenant is so often with Richmond, it is difficult to avoid. As is the way her heart thuds to her feet when she sees him.

How many others have experienced such a _bouleversement_?

The lieutenant certainly does not _seem_ to want to tempt her, rolling his eyes and sneering at her at every turn—

Except when he doesn’t. Except when he is almost stomach-churningly sincere, much as he tries to hide it. Riona still has the conserve he bought her.

Riona shakes herself. There is a ball tonight, and she may as well let him dance with her. He asked so [prettily](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29151660/chapters/72257073), after all.

~

Mason is all but vibrating with tension as the various noble families enter the ballroom. Lady Caroline always causes a stir, never more so now with the two diamonds of the season under her wing.

To be sure, Lady Farah is more than pretty enough, and were things different he might try to catch her eye, but—

But Lady Riona is radiant, shining in white satins and golden ribbons like another sun, and so is he drawn to her, feet carrying him to her almost unthinkingly until he is in front of her and quite suddenly, any charm he had fails him.

“I—May I—”

“You may.” Normally when she speaks with him, it is her eyes that whisper to him, rich with promise and with a warmth that reaches into his soul.

Today, her eyes are almost cold, throughout the dance and the _pas de rigaudon_ and the _chassé avant_ , and Mason does not _understand_ , even as she leaves him with a brusque farewell at the end of their dance.

(She does not see how he reaches for her. He is glad for that, at least.)

When he retreats to the balcony, resisting Mickey’s efforts to coax him back inside (he is done trying to play nice); he thinks about how she had been warm enough to scorch in the drawing room not a week previously.

(If he closes his eyes he can still feel how soft her skin was on his, how her touch seemed to wash away the pale, feathery scars on his hands that went deeper yet.)

And then as if Mason has summoned her, she is _there_ , on the adjacent balcony, and it is with a quiet horror that he realises that she is stifling sobs. Sobs that shake her frame, that make him want to envelop her in his arms and absorb the shock of each one, and he makes as if to move and go to her (though what, _what_ could he say)—

But then Robert Marks is there.

(Mason thinks he is some kind of politician, though he did not listen when Nate told him the details. He did not think he would need to.)

Mason cannot help but watch as Marks offers her a silk handkerchief, plies her with an oily charm and then dares to stroke the rose bloom in her cheek – and _that_ cuts like a knife, even though she jerks away from Marks with a flush.

Marks says something that makes Riona giggle – she has _never_ giggled like that for Mason, though sometimes she looks stunned when she looks at Mason, moves closer without meaning to, lets her breath catch in her pretty, little throat, and _that_ sends his pulse into overdrive but—

But then Marks tries to touch her again, cupping one cheek in what is no doubt a far softer hand than Mason’s, rough and calloused and scarred as it is, and she does not move away.

And Mason has seen enough.


	14. february 25th: regret

Nate’s bed is warm, but Mickey feels cold all over as he tosses and turns in the night.

Eventually (although, Mickey notes with no small amount of jealousy, Nate is _unbelievably_ slow to stir), his movements make Nate groan throatily and drape one lean arm across Mickey’s chest. Lets one pianist hand tangle in the thick thatch of hair over Mickey’s heart, before he mumbles, voice thick in his throat.

“What’s wrong, _jaan_?”

“I fucked up.”

 _That_ gets Nate’s attention. “How?”

“I think I have created a rift between Mason and Lady Riona.”

Nate is—well, Nate is _sympathetic_ , but he does not see what all the fuss is about.

“Though Mason is amiable enough, naught will come of it – Lady Caroline is quite set on getting her girls suitable matches,” Mickey is not stupid, that means _Nate_ for at least one of the girls, and something hopeless settles in the pit of his stomach, “and Mason is only a lieutenant. Were he a major, or some such—”

“She is fond of him – I did not realise it before, but she was quite vexed when I said to her—”

“When you say vexed—”

“Hands shaking and sharp temper.”

“Ah.” Lady Riona is known for her composure even in the face of Hyacinth Beaumont and the Friedmanns – the idea that she would let it waver, even for a moment, is almost unthinkable, even to Nate.

“I do not know—” Breaks off with an explosive sigh, and feels Nate nose at his cheek, before planting a kiss there to soothe him.

“There is nothing you can do now except tell Mason not to lose heart.”

 _That_ is unexpected – Mickey turns to face Nate, blue eyes boring into deep brown as he studies him for some kind of jest. His much-vaunted confidence fails still further when he finds none.

“But—”

Nate presses a gentle kiss to Mickey’s forehead and wraps his arms around him to hold him close.

“Lady Caroline has been disappointed before.”


	15. february 26th: genuine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Attempted forced kiss

Riona only accepts Lieutenant Mason’s invitation to dance because she is trying to avoid the younger Friedmann. At least, that is what she tells herself.

This dance is closer than the one they had shared before, and it becomes ever harder to not be drawn in by him, dark shadows and shining silver eyes.

Might as well be civil. “Have you been well, Lieutenant?”

Riona thinks she might be offended at the way his eyes widen in surprise at her civility – but it is difficult to tease out the emotion from the shifting tapestry of all the others that assault her when she feels his hand on hers.

“Enough. And you, my lady?” The Lieutenant’s voice is gruff, but his eyes are piercing, as if to catch even the barest scent of a lie.

A turn separates them for a moment, and Riona has to smile winningly at Hyacinth Beaumont for a moment before rejoining the lieutenant.

“Enough.”

They have to pause for a few beats while they manoeuvre through the _glissades_ , before they find each other again.

“Have I offended you, my lady?” Lieutenant Mason’s voice is quiet enough that she has to strain to hear him, and having heard him, she is stunned into silence for a moment at the sheer anxious energy in his voice and demeanour as he studies her silently.

“I—no, you have not. For once.” That last is muttered under her breath with the nearest thing to a scowl she will allow on her face in a place like this, and he gives her a small smirk, a mere shadow of the one that she knows he _can_ give her but it is enough to make her heart flutter a little.

“Then—”

“A foolish notion, nothing more.” Foolish to have entertained the thought that he might care for her, that she might be special to him.

“I—” He seems lost for words, even as powerful hands grip her waist to hoist her in a lift and bring her safely back to earth (and she fancies that he would always return her safely, though that is foolish, too). If she holds onto his biceps for a moment longer than required in the dance, neither of them is so bold as to say so.

“I should like to call on you – if you would permit it.” His voice is still deep, but his words come haltingly slow, as if he is not sure of the taste of them, or does not want them to hang in the air. “I liked hearing you read at Richmond’s.”

Her own words are little more than garbled nonsense, and she would curse herself if she could remember what words would make a curse. “I—yes, that would be—yes.”

“Good.” The dance comes to an end, and the lieutenant bows deeply, looking up at her through dark lashes with a small smile. “My lady.”

Wordlessly offers him a curtsy in return, then goes to sit near Lady Caroline, who in turn sits patiently as the elder Friedmann regales her once more with tales of his supposed glory at Valmy. While listening to them prattle, Riona notices that her bag, beaded to match her dress, is slightly open – but when she goes to close it, she finds inside a bloom of Bittersweet.

Catches the Lieutenant’s eye from across the ballroom and he is _staring_ at her, heat turning storm-grey eyes to liquid mercury, and she feels devoured and ravenous all at once. Places the bloom gently back in her bag and retreats to the balcony for air.

After a few minutes, a voice appears behind her.

“My lady.”

And yet, instead of the Lieutenant, it is Mr. Marks that lingers in the doorway, and Riona has to plaster on her polite mask to hide her disappointment.

“Mr. Marks. I—” But there is something different in his eyes tonight – where before he had smiled at her to make her feel at ease, this smile feels _wrong_ , out of place somehow, as if it should belong to a viper, not a man.

“There is no rush, my lady. We have all the time in the world.” Before Riona can scarce react, Mr. Marks has caged her in against the balustrade of the balcony and leans in closer, intending to—

“ _No_ , I don’t—”

But Mr. Marks does not heed to refusal, instead tilts his head to try and chase her lips and _why has no one come_ —

“If you did not want my affection, you should not have smiled so prettily before, whatever is a man to thi—”

“She said no.” The Lieutenant’s voice is gravelly rough, _threatening_ in a way that she has never heard before, and suddenly she can appreciate what this man must be like on the battlefield, as opposed to the ballroom.

“I do not recall asking—”

“Leave.”

Riona lifts her chin to stare Mr. Marks down, and he leaves muttering to himself, with his tail between his legs.

She turns, then, to face the lieutenant, and silhouetted against the chandeliers of the ballroom he looks half a god, hair forming a dark halo, though she is not sure whether he would be an angel or something altogether more tempting.

He comes close to her, runs a finger along her cheekbone and she cannot help the way she leans into it, her whole body aching for more, _more_ , urging him to cup her cheek, to stroke her cheekbone, to even—

And then she hears her mother calling for her, and he jerks away as if burned, the muscles in his throat working around a gasped breath.

“Call on me.” A quiet order passes her lips in what sounds distressingly like a sigh, and he takes her hand and places it over his heart (and she fancies that his heart is thundering just as loudly and quickly as her own).

“As soon as I can.” And she believes him.


End file.
